


I Will Take Your Pleasure And Your Pain

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M, Sex Magic, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:46:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like going mad, or dying, or both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Take Your Pleasure And Your Pain

It's no one's fault. It's just bad luck, or maybe reckless stupidity, that Dean was the one to kick apart the altar and not Sam. One boot in the witch's carefully set out spell sends the whole thing snapping back to him.

And it's pissed.

He'd kicked Sam out of the motel room, because seriously, there's only so much uncomfortable conversation he can make while pretending he isn't losing blood from his brain at ridiculous speed. Magic spell or not, he had no intention of jerking off with an audience. Though he suspects Sam's hovering somewhere out there, like a giant giraffe of worry. Under normal circumstances that would put him off, but these are _not_ normal circumstances.

It stopped feeling good and started hurting three hours ago. But Dean can't leave it, he can't stop touching because the heavy, urgent weight of his cock is demanding as fuck, a minute - half a minute - after every orgasm he's all but hard again. Hand dropping in frustrated irritation to jerk himself off again, and again, without anything close to permanent relief. It feels like if he doesn't touch it he's going to go mad, or die. He's still not entirely sure if he's being over-dramatic or whether there's _actually_ a danger of one of those happening. It doesn't feel all that farfetched right now. And since he doesn't absolutely know for sure -

The harsh sensitivity is like a constant stab of frustrated pain. It aches like a son of a bitch, and it's good, and he wants it to stop. Please, God, he wants it to stop.

He'd taken the time to strip his t-shirt, jeans and boxer shorts off two hours ago. Frustrated at them for being sweaty and constrictive and too harsh on his skin. It didn't help much, he's still too hot, skin still too tight and restless, like he hasn't come for a year and not thirty seconds ago.

He can already feel his cock twitching, the low angry throb that always starts off good and doesn't stop until he's hurting. He groans irritation into the pillow.

That's the exact moment Castiel chooses to appear in the fucking room.

Dean's scrambling for a pillow before the sound of open wings stops.

"Fuck, Cas, personal time."

Castiel's stood at the end of the bed, all business and fierce expression, like nothing, absolutely nothing he found Dean doing in here could throw him. Like maybe he's not even capable of being thrown.

He's got the confused and disappointed _nailed_ though. Hurrah for him.

"Sam told me what happened," Castiel rumbles, and Dean pretends that the unnatural depth of his voice doesn't feel like a physical thing.

"Of course he did." Sam's going to be in serious trouble next time Dean sees him. Because he's supposed to be having alone time, or possibly in quarantine. There really wasn't time to break out the hazmat suits and put up orange tape.

He groans and folds over and glares at Castiel, who unrepentantly stares back at him.

"Yeah, a little witch trouble, I'm dealing with it, on my own, by myself." Dean figures that's a subtle but pointed enough suggestion for Castiel to _get the fuck out._ So he can deal with it.

"Manual stimulation is insufficient," Castiel offers, because the day isn't complete unless the angel's making awkward sexual references.

Dean gives up, he really does. If the universe wants his life to be some sort of hilarious, supernatural-themed comedy then who's he to stop it.

"You think I haven't fucking worked that out by now, huh?" he says. He pulls one of his knees up, because Castiel's still staring like that's perfectly ok and Dean isn't quite that far gone yet. "It's not like I'm going trawling for some poor unsuspecting member of the public for a night of seriously unpleasant and incredibly frustrating sex."

"I never suggested that you should." There's that tone under the words again, that smartass, controlled bullshit like Castiel always knows what to do next. Like he's too damn evolved for anything like this to ever happen to him.

Dean grunts something irritated.

"You volunteering for the job, Cas?"

"Yes," Castiel says. Like he doesn't even have to think about it. Like it's nothing. Like he's just going to go ahead and make this day more screwed up that it was before.

"What the fuck?"

"I know you don't object to sex with a male partner and the current state you're in would make any issues of whether you find me attractive or not completely moot." Castiel doesn't look upset about that. Anyone else would be upset. Castiel's just wearing that 'I suspect I have the wrong tools for the job but I'm up to the challenge' face.

Jesus.

"Your bedroom talk is awesome," Dean complains and crushes the erection his body is desperately trying to tell him about with the pillow. Which isn't all that helpful. Because his dick thinks everything is an awesome idea at the moment.

But it's under the influence so it doesn't get a say.

Castiel says nothing, which just proves he's learnt all about sarcasm. Or, possibly, that he's waiting for Dean to agree, or explode.

Dean's going to tell him no, going to tell him _hell the fuck no._ But it's choked up at the back of his throat while he watches Castiel strip off tie and shirt and undershirt. Tidied up angel turning into skin, all foreign planes of it, like something obscene and by the time Castiel starts on the catch of his trousers the words are gone. They're swallowed down along with all the moisture in his mouth and half a breath.

All Dean gets out is a shaky exhale which Castiel seems to take as encouragement, or permission, definitely something he didn't intend it to be.

"My relative inexperience shouldn't matter considering your state of arousal," Castiel adds, like he thinks that's a good thing.

"God, will you shut up, please." Dean manages. Because it's a really bad time to remind Dean he's a virgin, a really, really bad time. That combined with the whole 'angel' thing and the complete lack of enthusiasm is just a fucking joy, seriously. It's like his body doesn't know whether to come, laugh or shrivel up and die from self-disgust and Dean's knows you can't do all of those things at the same damn time.

There will be no bullshit sacrificing of virtue today, goddamn it. But he still isn't saying no and he hates himself, because he's fairly sure if he says 'no' Castiel will have to stop, that he can't _make_ him. Fuck, that's not a good thing to be thinking either. He thinks at the moment he'd quite like Castiel to make him. Yeah, yeah he's pretty sure that's just making it worse.

He groans and curves into the pillow. The longer he goes without the more it hurts, the more it feels like he's going to tear something, every breath going too deep and catching, like his skin's connected in ways that are wrong.

"Cas, I can't hold this. Will you please, just leave - or stay, or...Christ." He has to stop to swallow, to breathe, to find more air for more words, though what the hell they're going to be he hasn't worked out yet.

The bed dips in a creak of springs and a rasp of cheap cotton and the angel is way, way more naked than any angel should be. Castiel's hands burn when they touch him, though whether from heat or cold Dean doesn't have a clue. For a second all he can do is inhale and shake and try to hold on to this thing that he figures probably won the battle hours ago. Castiel drags the pillow away, leaves them too close and too naked and Dean's gone, gone, fucking _gone._

"What do you want?" Castiel asks quietly. Sounding uncertain for the first time.

Dean can't answer, can't do anything but pull at angel skin, haul it close until it's burning him everywhere. Catch Castiel's face in shaking hands and tip it up just right. Castiel's mouth is clumsy and slow, but it's wet and it's open and it's _perfect_. Dean decides he wants that, wants it everywhere, but mostly wants it right now where he needs it most badly. He leans away, drags Castiel full lower lip down with his thumb and slides it inside and Castiel's focus goes somehow sharper than before.

He's pushing Dean back down onto the bed, sliding down - and all Dean can do is inhale and let him. He's helpless to protest, or stop him, because he doesn’t have enough blood left anywhere else.

Dean's fairly sure he hurts too much to do this. But when Castiel lays cool hands on his thighs and spreads his legs apart Dean swears and lets him. Stuttering out every breath like there's no way in hell he could ever be prepared for this.

Castiel's mouth is cool and wet and gentle. But Dean's thighs still tense on a hiss. It’s a shock of pleasant/unpleasant that he doesn’t know what to do with. Razor edges of needy excitement underneath the rough, repeated burn of over-sensitivity.

"Cas, fuck, don't stop," he begs. Though he's still twitching and flinching every time Castiel sucks him, every time the wet drag of his mouth pulls him closer to the edge. Because he knows it's going to hurt when he comes. He knows it's barely going to take the edge off. That it'll leave his body humming and desperate and the ache in his groin a fiercer burn than before. It'll leave him wanting like he's burning up from the inside out, ache so deep his bones hurt. But he can't stop his fingers from digging into the bare curve of Castiel's shoulders, digging in and holding and begging on every breath. Sounding like cheap porn while he watches Castiel's stupid, obscene, distracting mouth slide down his dick. There's no one in the fucking world that could hold out under that. It starts as an ache, then turns into a twist of pain that pulls him all the way to the edge.

"Cas, if you don't want -" He doesn't finish, can't finish. He comes inside Castiel's mouth with a hiss, shudders that are still as much pain as pleasure. Before he slides free straight away. Lays back on the bed to revel in those few seconds of relieved numb bliss.

It doesn't last long, doesn't last close to long enough. But he doesn't know if he can presume, doesn't know if Castiel wants - until Castiel works his way up his body. A slide of skin that leaves Dean catching without meaning to, pushing and pressing the angel down into the sheets.

Too desperate to think straight, to even consider what he's about to ask for. "Can I - Cas - "

"Yes," Castiel says simply and he presses the bottle left by the pillow into Dean's hand.

He nearly loses half of it in his rush to get the damn thing open, and if Castiel had been human Dean's almost certain he'd never have gotten away with such a shoddy prep job. But Castiel encourages him, accepts the reckless pace. Until Dean pulls his thighs round his waist and sinks into him with one push. He groans, because it's not all pleasure, it's not even half pleasure. But he can't stop, can't even hope to stop. Castiel is tight and everything is sharper and more intense than it's ever been before. All layers of pain and desperate greed.

There's still a layer of reality underneath the buzz of unnatural, grinding want. A layer that tells him he's _inside_ Castiel, watching the angel breathe and jolt under every rough thrust. Underneath him just because Dean wanted him to be. Because he needed him to be.

His orgasm comes too quickly, all sting and warmth that leaves him shaking but does nothing to quiet the clawing under his skin.

Castiel looks something close to vulnerable like this, arms stretched over his head, mouth open, clothes stripped away. Dean's kissing him before he realises it, a wet, rough, needy sort of kiss, every hard scrape of half-grown beard against his jaw is a drag of sensation that borders on pain. Dean slips his hand down between them, grasps Castiel and strokes him through his own release. He smothers the noises he makes. They're quiet and new and completely unselfconscious. Dean kind of fucking loves them.

He's already hard again inside him. Already desperate, fighting the urge to push in again.

"Cas," Dean breathes into his mouth and his voice sounds wrecked. But he doesn't expect Cas to just let him do whatever he wants, until this thing wears off, doesn't expect anything.

He's moving, just a little, he doesn't even notice until the friction makes him wince and he forces himself to stop.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," Dean manages, presses his forehead against Castiel's and groans. Because he wants, he wants so badly and he can't stop it.

"Anything," Castiel says quietly, firmly. "Anything you need."

He draws Dean's hands back to his body, lets them catch on his skin, lets them push his thighs wide and then braces himself against the wall for the steady thrusts that Dean can't even hope to hold in.

Dean thinks he's going to feel fucking ashamed of the things Castiel lets him do. The things he asks for. Slow and hard and then quick and brutal. The cover and pillows end up scattered across the room, the sheets twisted and creased underneath them, damp handprints against the wall and fine cracks in the plaster. Dean uses every fucking bottle of lotion and shampoo and conditioner the bathroom has. The slickness doing nothing to stop every time from being sharper and more painful than the last.

He thinks he's addicted to the friction burn of it, to the noises Castiel makes every time he slides into him, the way his hair is a wreck from the constant drag and catch of Dean's fingers. The way he doesn't just take it but gasps his way through it, comes against Dean's stomach, breathless and shaky and fucking grateful. But Dean can't stop, even though he's exhausted and he hurts everywhere and it feels like he's pulled every muscle he owns.

He ends up slumped over Castiel's back, too sore to move, much too sore to try anything. He lets the sharp ache in his groin drive him mad for a few impossible minutes, stifling every groan at the cold air on his over-stimulated and over-used dick.

"Fuck, Cas."

His fingers drift, restlessly to where Castiel's still slippery, still wet and loose from where Dean's been inside him, so many fucking times. He wants him, wants to feel him again, and he really, really doesn't at the same time. Because it's pretty much just pain now.

Castiel spreads his legs and Dean's moving before he's thinking, working on instinct now, shoving Castiel's thighs apart and pushing inside again. It's easy, so easy, and he sinks all the way in one movement, teeth dug into his bottom lip, because it hurts, Christ, _fuck_ , does it hurt. It's slow and it's almost nothing like pleasure. It's a slide of rough, delirious pain and he knows he's sobbing every breath into the curve of Castiel's neck, wanting it and hating it at the same time. Castiel holds him and makes quiet noises against his skin while he works, slowly, miserably, towards some sort of completion.

It's like being electrocuted when he comes, dry and painful and when he finally slides out he wishes he couldn’t feel anything below the waist.

He collapses on Castiel's chest, breathing like he's going to die, and Castiel's hands catch his skin and hold him there. He can feel the steady thump of Castiel's heartbeat against his ear.

His dick stays soft for half a minute, then a full minute, then two, then five.

He lets Castiel's breathing lull him to sleep.

  



End file.
